Uncle
by RainbowBetty
Summary: Lucifer DOES have a point, and Sam has something to prove. Dean just wants his brother to be okay. Set in early season 7. This was my first SPN fic, and while I'm not going to apologize for it just know that we all have to start somewhere okay *cringe* Really, don't read this one, read something else.
1. Chapter 1

Sam couldn't breathe.

His eyes widened to round disks and his fingers pulled desperately at the hands tightening, closing around his throat.

It hurt, it screamed, it blocked out every thought from his head except _STOP. AIR. PLEASE._ Black spots crawled into his vision. His lungs heaved at nothing. He was going to die. The certainty filled him. With hardly any conscious thought, his mouth formed the words, the words that reduced his defiance to abject begging: _please. _

_Stop. Please._

There, all right? He was begging.

In an instant, beautiful, free, wonderful air flooded his lungs and he choked, gasping, with his hands clasped protectively around his windpipe. As Lucifer released him, Sam crumbled to his knees and put down a hand to steady himself. His breath came in harsh, jagged heaves. He looked up at his captor, shame warring with hatred as oxygen filtered back into his starved cells.

"Now _that_, you see, Sam," said Lucifer with that sweet, not-quite-mocking half-smile, "that is my gift to you. That air you're breathing."

Sam dropped his eyes, still breathing hard, still aching. Lucifer crouched down in front of him and grasped Sam's jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. Sam fought for a moment and then gave up, relented, lost himself in Lucifer's intent, piercing stare. "And all you had to do was ask!"

Sam gritted his teeth but said nothing. _Dean._ Willfully, he conjured an image of his brother's face in his mind's eye, smiling back at him at some shared joke, punching his shoulder, sitting silent beside him in the warm, familiar smell of the Impala. _Dean._ It almost felt like it was all he had left of himself to hold on to.

Lucifer's smile widened and he let go of Sam's face, patting him condescendingly on the cheek. "Okay, then," he said. "We good? I'm not just asking, Sam, I really do need to know. It's important to me. _You're_ important to me."

_Go to hell._ The words flashed in Sam's mind, and his mouth tightened, keeping them inside. He refused to give Lucifer anything else.

Lucifer stood up, languidly, casually. "I'm just gonna go –" he gestured to the door with both thumbs—"get a sandwich. Sound good? You want anything? No?" He laughed at his own joke. Sam watched him, his eyes flashing, saying nothing, as the devil chuckled and made his way to the only exit from the small, rundown hotel room. "Don't you go anywhere until I get back, Sammy." He stopped, and put a finger to his lips as if it had just occurred to him. "Oh but that's right! You're sort of stuck here. With me."

The door closed with a click of finality and Sam dropped back to sit on his heels, turning over option after dead-end option for escape until the despair threatened to drown him. _Dean._ He felt tears prick the back of his eyes and then mentally shook himself. _No. Dammit, stop it. Dean wouldn't give up. _

In the hallway outside the room, he could hear the faint echo of Lucifer laughing.

.*.*.*.

His simpering smile was almost worse than the pain. "Just _ask me,_ Sammy! It's really all you have to do. You know I'm here for you."

The agony in his shoulder, of his arm being forced upward behind his back, the terrifying _wrongness_ of the angle, wrenched another cry of pain from Sam. He hated himself for being weak. Hated Lucifer, hated himself, it was all tangled up in his head in a mess of pain and confusion, anger, need, weakness, fear. _Fuck. You._ His mind said it as the pain and threat of breaking bone thrummed through him, but he bit back the words. It was what Lucifer wanted, to hear him lashing out from a place of weakness.

"What was that, Sam?" he asked softly, bending close in a mocking way. "Was that a _please?"_

_Dean,_ Sam thought forcefully_._ Dean smiling, Dean confident, Dean with a plan, Dean safe and alive and uninjured and _not this._

Without pretext, Lucifer pressed his boot firmly against Sam's spine and yanked his shoulder out of joint. A terrible wave of pain crashed over Sam. He screamed into the carpeted hotel room floor, fibers rough against his forehead, hair and sweat and tears in his eyes. _"Please stop," _he cried. "Ah God, _please!"_

Distantly, he was aware of the pressure lifting off his back and Lucifer releasing his arm. Sam writhed and curled in on himself, grasping his useless, injured shoulder. He knew tears were flowing freely down his face but he didn't care, couldn't remember what it had felt like to care, or to feel anything but this awful, nausea-inducing pain.

The toe of Lucifer's boot nudged oh-so gently against Sam's side, rolling him over onto his back. "There now," he said in a parody of caring. "Was that really so hard?"

Sam's head dropped back against the floor. "Why… why are you… doing this?" he managed.

"Sammy." Lucifer knelt to a crouch and tousled Sam's hair almost playfully. "Don't you know?"

Sam looked at him, eyes tight with pain.

Lucifer shook his head slowly, as if the answer were so obvious. "Sammy. I'm surprised at you. You're ordinarily such a bright boy. But not to worry, we've got all the time in the world."

.*.*.*.

Sam screwed his eyes shut and tried to focus on his own breathing, to make it slow and steady and stop the tide of panic from overtaking him. He tried to disappear into his own thoughts, to escape for a few moments, but the physical sensations brought him back to this room. The musty smell of the hotel curtains. The scratching ropes against his forearms, flesh pressed hard against the unyielding wooden arms of the chair he was tied to. Lucifer's grip on his right hand as he firmly grasped Sam's index finger.

He tried to think of Dean. _Dean._ Where was Dean? His heart was hammering frantically in his chest, anticipating the _snap_ of bone that he knew was coming.

_Dean. Dean. Dean. Please, no. Don't. God. Dean._

Lucifer exhaled impatiently, like a huff. "Sam," he said chidingly. "You know it _hurts_ me that you won't _talk_ to me. It doesn't have to be this way."

_Fuck you,_ Sam said in his head, setting his jaw with a determination he wasn't sure he actually felt anymore. He wanted to crawl inside himself, curl up in a fetal position inside his own mind, escape from this, from Lucifer.

"Just _ask me_ to stop, Sammy. And I will. It's that simple. I really do want what's best for you. I _care_ about you."

A flutter of doubt brushed against Sam's mind. Was he lying? Was this all for nothing? Did it matter if he gave in? If he let himself be weak? What difference did it make? Lucifer would only keep at him and at him until he cracked, until he was so worn down that all it would take was a sideways glance from him to drop Sam onto his knees weeping and begging, groveling, pleading with this monster for mercy? It was pointless to keep pretending he had any hope of holding on. And anyway, who was there to judge him?

The answer slammed into him with such certainty that it turned his stomach._ Dean._ Without question, Dean. Dean expected more from him. Dean would never give in. Neither would he. He clamped his lips into a thin line and tried to steel himself.

"G-go to hell," he said, cursing at the tremor in his voice.

He felt Lucifer's cold fingers tighten on his almost imperceptibly.

_Crack. _Sam seized against the ropes holding him, his head jerking back as he bit back a cry. In his mind, he screamed, swore, yelled, begged, but out loud he said nothing. Sam didn't say a word.

It wasn't until the fourth finger that Sam let out a tortured scream and sobbingly cried out _please, no more, no more, please._

_You only had to ask,_ he said, caressing the back of Sam's wrecked hand.

_Dean. _An image of Dean, his eyebrows knit together in a look of stern disapproval, pushed its way into Sam's mind.

Sam let his head fall forward to his chest in defeat as he sobbed brokenly.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of Sam screaming knifed through Dean. It yanked him out of a dead sleep, pulled him upright in bed, and had him kicking free of the tangled hotel room comforter before he even knew what was he was doing. Instinct and practice had his gun in his hand out from under his pillow before his feet hit the floor.

"Sammy?"

He scanned the room for Sam, for the source of the sound. Sam's bed, the one beside his, the one farthest from the door, was empty. Beyond it, there was Sam. He was pressed against the far wall, visibly trembling, his eyes screwed shut, face contorted in pain.

_OhGodSam, not again._

Dean stashed the gun in the band of his sweat pants behind his back. He grasped Sam's shoulders and felt him flinch and shudder, try to pull away. Sam's eyes flew open and darted around the room, through Dean, unseeing, acknowledging. Dean looked down at his brother, at the awkward way he was holding his right hand, at his quick, shallow gasps of air, and Dean felt hot rage building inside of him.

He was losing his brother. He was losing Sam to an echo of Hell and there was nothing he could do about it.

He tightened his grip on Sam's shoulders and shouted, "Sam! Come on, man. Come back to me." Then he gritted his teeth and smacked Sam hard across the face. Hard enough to snap Sam's head back and bring his hand up to feel the sting he'd left on his cheek. Sam's eyes focused and he blinked twice, squinting.

"De… Dean?"

Dean heaved in relief. "Yeah, man. It's me. What the fuck?"

Then, Sam's expression darkened, clouded with something like horror and he drew farther away from Dean against the wall. "Dean. You can't—you can't be here. He…"

"Sam, it's okay. It's Lucifer, or whatever, something you were seeing, a – a hallucination. Whatever it was, it's not real. You were… dreaming or something. Okay? You okay? It's not real. None of that shit's real. You're here with me now, okay?"

As Dean was talking, he bent to catch his brother's eyes, to make Sam look at him. He almost relaxed a little when Sam's eyes met his and he seemed to be searching Dean's face, looking for the truth of it. And then something behind them drew Sam's attention. He looked past Dean, almost through him, and his eyes widened. "No. No, don't!_ Please!"_

Sam's hands grasped fistfuls of Dean's t-shirt. Dean caught his wrists and kept him from collapsing. _"Sam. _Whatever it is, it's not real! Sam, _look_ at me!"

Sam wasn't hearing him. He was leaning, clinging to Dean, eyes fixed on some imaginary spot in their room.

"You want me to beg? FINE." Sam was shouting. "This is me fucking _begging._ Okay? Please!"

"_Sam!"_

"Leave him alone. I'll do anything."

"Sammy! Goddamn it! Look at me!"

"Yes! Damn it! Anything!" He was shouting, sobbing. He was breaking. "_Please. Please_ don't fucking do this!"

Dean shook with rage and helplessness. He looked from Sam whatever it was Sam was seeing across the room. Fury raged in him at this imaginary force inside Sam's head, with nowhere to direct it. No way to protect Sam, watching Sam self-destruct right before his eyes.

"Sammy—"

"You want me on my knees? You want to hear me say it?" A sound of desperation escaped Sam, like a choked-off cry, and he flung himself down onto his hands and knees, shoulders heaving with emotion. "Okay. You win. You have me! Okay? Just… please. Leave Dean out of this."

Something in Dean snapped in two.

This was the brother he'd taken a bullet for. Killed for. Gone to Hell for. How dare anyone – _anyone_ – reduce his brother to this. Especially Lucifer, the bastard who had taken Sam apart God knew how many times, destroyed his mind, his soul. And yet here was Sam, bargaining with the son of a bitch to _leave Dean out of this?_ No. Sam, no. No fucking way. Never mind that none of it was fucking real. It was real to Sam. It was doing _this_ to Sam. That meant it was going down.

"Sam," he said urgently, leaning close to Sam's bowed head. "Sam, I need you to do something for me. I need you to hear this. You need to hear what I'm saying to you and _make this happen_ inside that head of yours, okay Sammy?"

Dean took a breath, then he straightened, directing his full attention to the empty hotel room. "Lucifer!" he growled. It was a command, a you-better-fucking-listen-to-me tone of voice. Sam caught his breath and lifted his head just an inch, just a fraction, but Dean noticed, and it gave him hope.

"Listen, you sadistic, horn-headed son of a bitch. You go ahead and do whatever the fuck you want with me, but you leave Sammy alone. You fucking touch him again, and I will _end_ you."

"Dean!" Sam hissed behind him. "Stop it! Shut up." The words were barely above a whisper. But Sam was looking directly at him, terrified but _seeing_ him.

This was going to work, it had to work.

Exaggerating the word so that Sam would get it, Dean mouthed _Nashville._ Then: _car wash._

Sam's eyes narrowed in confusion. Dean silently pleaded with Sam to think, _think back. Come on, Sam. Remember._

A hint of understanding seemed to dawn in Sam.

_You with me? _Dean prodded silently, raising his eyebrows in question. Sam ducked his head in a single nod, and slowly, shakily, held up nine fingers.

They'd been on a hunt five or so years ago, deep in an industrial block of downtown Nashville where they'd tracked the spirit to an abandoned car wash, of all things. The spook had caught Dean off guard and come at him with a hose sprayer, dousing him full in the face with concentrated soap and chemicals. Dean stumbled backwards, shouting at the sudden blinding pain and wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt to try and clear his vision. He couldn't see a thing. He was completely blind, but he still had his grip on the rifle, and Sam – as always – had his back.

"Two o'clock!" Sam had shouted. Without thinking, Dean lifted the barrel of the gun and unloaded a round of salt just ahead of him and to the right. A hollow, high-pitched shriek answered the gunshot, buying Sam the time he needed to finish prying out the loose cement block from the wall and burn the thing's remains.

Dean had stood there, blinking hard and grinding his sleeve into the tears and soap stinging his eyes. He peered blankly around him into areas of light and shadow, until Sam grabbed his arm and said, "Hey! We got it. Let's go! You all right?"

Nine fingers. Nine o'clock. Dean turned directly to his left where he imagined Lucifer was leering at him from inside Sam's head.

Then, in one fluid movement, he snatched the gun from the back of his waistband and fired – one, two, three, four shots into what he prayed was the devil's smug face.

"Ha!" Dean yelled triumphantly, looking back at Sam for confirmation of his aim.

Sam was immediately on his feet beside Dean, staring with bewilderment at the spots of sunlight streaming in from the holes in the thin hotel wall, and then at the place on the floor where Dean hoped the formless body of Lucifer's vessel was lying in a crumpled heap.

"Did I get him?" Dean asked Sam.

Sam blinked and then he exhaled the word, "Yeah." And then Dean caught Sam's arm as all his strength seemed to drain out of him, guiding him to the edge of the bed where he sank almost bonelessly onto the mattress.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam's head fell forward into his hands and his shoulders sagged.

"Hey!" Dean said. "You gonna pass out on me?"

Sam moaned and mumbled something into his hands. Dean sat down beside him on the bed and leaned close. "Can't hear you in there, man. You okay?"

Sam shook his head, dropping his hands and staring down hard at them. "… sorry." He said at last, miserably, his mouth twisting into an awful parody of a smile that might also have been Sam's attempt to fight back tears.

"What the hell are you sorry for?"

"I didn't… want you to see…"

"See _what,_ Sam? See Lucifer? You don't have to worry about that. I mean, it's not like I actually saw him, but even if I—"

"No, I…" Sam drew a shuddering breath and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes before continuing. "I tried not to… I tried to be stronger than that. _You_ would have been stronger. I didn't want you to see me… like that. You know? I just—I'm sorry."

It took so long for Dean to respond that Sam was afraid he wasn't going to say anything at all. He lifted his head and looked at Dean searchingly. Dean was staring at his own hands, frowning. "Dean?" Sam said at length.

"You really think that? You think that I'm stronger than you?"

Sam shrugged. "Yes," he admitted.

"Sam…" Dean's voice sounded low and harsh. "Hell was… Hell _broke_ me, Sam."

"No, it didn't."

"Don't tell me it didn't. It did. I gave up. I gave it up after just forty years of what must have been like a fucking _cakewalk_ compared to what Hell was for you. I just handed it over. Whatever it was—I don't know, decency, humanity, whatever it was that I couldn't manage to hold on to—" Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean cut him off. "Don't, Sam. Okay? We don't have to talk about it, hell I don't even know if you _can_ talk about it, but Sam. You were locked in that cage for almost _two hundred years_ while I walked around up here with my head up my ass. I can't ever forgive myself for that. And whatever that did to you, it's _my fault,_ Sam. Mine. That's on me. So don't you _ever_ sit there and tell me that I'm a stronger person than you because if it had been my soul in that cage all this time, there would be nothing left of me but dust. Ashes and dust."

Sam said nothing for a long time. Flashes of memories of the cage played through his head, each one still carrying the sharp pain of a fresh wound. "I don't… think you can compare it like that," he said softly.

"Probably not. But it's true, Sam."

"Dean, I..." He didn't want to say what was coming next, but he needed Dean to know it. "I couldn't have made it without you, in Hell. Even when you're not—when you weren't – _there_, with me, I still had you to believe in. I needed that. You can never know—" Sam broke off, his voice unsteady. He shook his head before continuing. "I held on… because of _you._ You're my brother, you always looked out for me. You were always there."

"Yeah well, I guess I fucked that one up, didn't I. Let the one person I was supposed to protect—"

"Dean. You had to let me jump."

There was something in the quiet, certain way he said it that brought Dean to the verge of losing it. He stood up and paced across the room, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I didn't _have _to do anything. That was the whole fucking point of the whole 'team free will' thing, right? I made that choice—"

"No, _I_ made that choice."

Dean stopped and looked at Sam whose face suddenly looked too sharp and drawn in, and suddenly he saw not just the little brother he cared so much about but also the weight of destiny and two hundred years of unimaginable torture.

"Dean… " Sam said softly, "I'm sorry."

And then, it was like somebody flipped a switch or pulled back a curtain. A light went on. Dean got it. He understood. _Fuck._ Because this was _Sam,_ and if there's one thing always Dean got, it was Sam. Even when Sam was being completely stupid and irrational, Dean got it.

"You're _punishing_ yourself," Dean said.

Sam said nothing, just looked down at his hands.

"For... _for what,_ Sam? Tell me. This whole thing with Lucifer, it's because you can't let it go, can you? You think you deserve all this."

Sam shook his head. But it was a lie, Dean saw it. He saw the way Sam's shoulders drew in slightly and the way his posture went the tiniest bit more rigid, and the way his breath caught ever so slightly as he inhaled.

Dean closed the gap in the room between them and heard himself practically shouting at his brother. "That's it, isn't it? Two hundred years of Lucifer and Michael, and you _still_ come away feeling like it wasn't enough. I suppose you think I should have just left you there to rot, is that what you're telling me?"

"Dean, I swear, I—"

"Cut the bullshit, all right?"

Sam exhaled. "Fine. Yes. I guess so."

"So why, then?"

"Because of you."

Dean looked like he'd been slapped. "Because of...?"

"I let you down, Dean, I _always_ let you down. It was always me, _being me,_ screwing everything up, getting it wrong. I… I should have been… I don't know, stronger. Whatever. Dean, it doesn't matter. The point is, every time Lucifer shows up, I tell myself this time I'm going to hold out, not give in, because _you_ wouldn't. And it's never enough. He always finds a way to…" Sam pressed his lips together, something in his eyes going blank and distant.

Dean felt sick to his stomach. Both at the thought of his brother being repeatedly dragged to the breaking point and at the idea that he was measuring himself against some bullshit mark of superiority that Dean supposedly held over him.

"Sam," he said. "Sam, none of that is true."

Sam shrugged.

Dean stood in silence for a while, the muscle on the side of his jaw twitching. Finally he said flatly, "I don't know how to fix this."

"I'm not asking you to."

"So—so what then?" Dean held his hands out in front of him. "We're at an impasse?"

"Apparently."

Dean dropped his hands. "An impasse." He came over and sat down heavily on the bed beside his brother. Sam continued looking at his lap. At length, Dean said, "You, ah… you know what a pain in the ass you are, right?"

That drew the faintest of half smiles from Sam. His pained look softened just a bit, smoothing back into the familiar lines of Sam's face that Dean knew so well. "Jerk," Sam muttered.

Dean would take that as a win.


End file.
